


A Good Airing

by silvered_glass



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon to Dec 2017, Christmas Party, Comeplay, Less chat about thread counts than you might expect, M/M, Mirror Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered_glass/pseuds/silvered_glass
Summary: “Are you alright, Harry?”“That towel is dirty,” Harry replies absently. His mouth a little dry and the words not more than a mumble.“What?” Nick’s stopped folding now, he’s looking at the soft white cotton in his lap and then back at him curiously. “What’re you on about? You’ve gone all pink.”Harry can feel that he has; everything is hot suddenly, his face especially. “That towel is dirty, you don’t need to fold it,” Harry says, trying very hard for nonchalant. “That’s all I was saying.” He’s coming off quite high pitched.⌤⌤⌤Harry’s been on tour, wasting the hours by watching far too many old YouTube clips of Nick. He decides he wants to be a towel for Christmas.





	A Good Airing

**Author's Note:**

> This has been being written for about eight months. For eight months I have mentioned ‘towel fic’ to my poor friends. For eight months I've said that 'I think I am going to finish it this weekend' - said that it just needs 'a little more work ' - Eight months. Sigh at myself.
> 
> [Pillarboxred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillarboxred) and [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writcraft) thank you for being so wonderfully excited about this from day one to today. [Shiftylinguini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini) and [Jiksa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiksa) and [Ren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renlyne) and Writ I can never do justice all of your help and care. Thank you so so much for the beta reading and endless encouragement.
> 
> Basically, if we have ever spoken and I have not asked you to read this in advance, it’s only because I was hoping at least one person would read it on ao3.
> 
> If you want the links to what got Harry all, um, distracted .. please see the notes at the end.

⌤⌤⌤

 

In the hour he’s been at the party, Harry’s knocked his lower right thigh into Nick’s bloody Bowie coffee table about three times, and Pixie has spilt a good portion of mulled wine on his jumper. Both things would usually be enough to make him think it was a bit shit, but Harry isn’t too jet-lagged, the house is warm and nicely noisy, and there is a sort of buzz under his skin that he’s enjoying. He’s not even sure it has anything to do with the glass in his hand, because it could honestly just be nerves. Not pre-show kind of nerves, but… something. Some kind of happy anticipation. He’s not seen Nick properly yet since getting home from tour, and Harry’s looking forward to that. Looking forward to having some drinks, and seeing Nick. Nick’s always a little handsy when he’s drunk. But that’s not why. Harry’s just missed him a lot.

That’s why.

There’s some sort of Karaoke set up on the telly, and Fiona from Nick’s work is singing ‘ _Merry Christmas Everyone_ ’ with Ian at the moment. Harry will probably go on it later, provided he can find someone to do it with him. He should find Alexa. He should have at least one more drink first too. Maybe see if Nick needs one.  
  
He heads to the kitchen for another vodka tonic. It’s not a fancy party, no staff or anything. In fact, it’s the closest thing to a proper house party that Harry’s been to that wasn’t a music video set in a long time. Just a mess of people and bottles and a massive bowl of lemons on the centre island.

Harry had been surprised when Nick said he was having people over. Admittedly he has people over all the time; he’s either out with people or in with people, is never really alone is Nick. But he’s also not really one for hosting a proper actual pre-planned invite-issued event. Nick created a WhatsApp group though, called it _‘feeling dead chrismassy’_ and announced in it that he'd ‘come over all festive and everyone had to come round his for a party’. And so here they all are.

 

Harry cuts a wedge from one of the lemons and watches a man who’s talking to Nick over by the door down to the laundry. The man is good looking. Tall, with ginger-blond hair. Harry doesn’t know who he is precisely, but he recognises him from Nick’s more recent Instagram posts. And he doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like that there is someone who he doesn't know, but who he can recognise because he’s been with Nick enough. It all comes back to something that Harry has been thinking of more and more since June ― who Nick’s with when he’s not with Harry, and who Nick _is_ when he’s with whoever the not-Harry is.  
  
Nick laughs then, proper laughs, his head thrown back and eyes shut because of something this guy has said and maybe Harry just doesn’t like him. This stupid tall strawberry-blond man. Harry watches as Nick puts his hand on the man’s shoulder to steady himself as he keeps laughing.  
  
Harry’s already poured in his measure of vodka, but he splashes more into the glass before he heads back up to the sitting room.

 

⌤

 

Harry’s sitting at the edge of the group. Aimee and Pixie are utterly destroying ‘ _This Year_ ’ which isn’t a Christmas song, but there is something very cathartic about screaming it out in the hope of a New Year. Harry’s had an amazing year. Amazing great bits and amazing sad bits. And now. Now he’s off. He’s on holidays. He’s home, in London. At Nick’s home.  
  
Nick seems happier than ever. Lit up for Christmas and full of stories about things that have happened without Harry and people that have been there for the things that Harry has not. That’s no different than it always is. Harry knows this, knows the world doesn’t stop while he’s off touring it. There’s something different about this time though. Something a bit taller, a bit further out of reach.  
  
And Harry is happy. He’s always happy when other people are happy, he’s full of shared happiness.  
  
It’s just.  
  
It’s just that he’s used to being slotted back in at the centre of Nick’s world. Slotted back in where parties are not a surprise and where plans sort of form around what Harry can fit in while he's home.

Maybe his stage banter narcissism is becoming a real and encompassing trait, but Harry always felt that there was a space at the centre of whatever Nick has going on at a particular moment which was _his_. It's a space he thought Nick left there for him because while they didn’t speak about it as such, they both wanted to make up for lost time when they could. It’s a space Harry feels like maybe he doesn’t fit into any more.

 

The very first day Harry was back they met for lunch at a place near the gym which Nick promised in his text ‘did amazing ginger shots.’ After they’d polished off their Poké bowls Harry had said ‘I’ll drive us to yours?’ but not really as a question - more an assumption, and Nick had said casually that he had a meeting about the Royal Academy and rushed off. So, the afternoon that Harry had been expecting — had kept free for watching something on Netflix and eating curry for tea and walking the dogs when it got dark enough to be sneaky — had turned into him going around Adam's on a flimsy excuse of having a song in his head. It had seemed better to sit annoying Adam's kids with lousy chord transitions than to be alone with his thoughts.  
  
Being alone with his thoughts is when Harry thinks about Mallorca. It’s when he messages Gemma and annoys her so much that she tells him if he doesn’t sort it out, she will. It’s when he wastes his time on Youtube watching, well, watching nothing that anything good ever came of.

  
“I’m happy for him,” Harry mouths at Pig who’s sitting flat eared next to the sofa arm. She looks up at him quickly and with a sudden little shake of her body gets up and clicks away out of the door. That’s different too. Pig doesn’t seem to see Harry as a person to hide next to — as a safe person who she knows. Instead, she scurries away and Harry can see her little paws climbing up the stairs. It won’t do.  
  
Harry gets up from the edge of the chair he’d been perched on and follows her.

Pig’s not on the landing that he kicked her poo out on to, or in the bathroom on that same level, that door is shut. There’s a woman who Harry doesn’t recognise, slouched against the wall and typing furiously on her phone, she doesn’t even look up as he passes heading up the next flight of stairs to Nick’s floor.  
  
The door of the back bedroom is shut, but Nick’s is ajar, and Harry goes in.  
  
Out of habit he puts his glass on the bedside table and sits on the bed, takes his boots off while looking at Pig. She’s sat up near the pillows where she really shouldn’t be. Harry holds his hand out tentatively, and she sniffs and then ducks her head down for him to pat the short hair over her worried little doggy brow, her tail thumping softly as he scratches at the back of her neck.  
  
It makes him feel warmer. Pig just needed a moment, and then it was all okay. He probably just needs to give things a moment. Maybe that’s the problem though. Too many moments.  
  
“You're a good girl Pig-dog, good girl,” Harry says softly. “I’m going to wash this mulled wine out of my clothes hey? Good girl.”  
  
He pulls off his jumper and t-shirt in one movement, leaving the shirt on the bed. Taking his glass with him as he goes into Nick’s bathroom and tries to rinse out Pixie’s spilt drink from his fluffy striped jumper.

 

⌤

 

It’s got good acoustics, Nick’s bathroom. Good acoustics and — somewhat oddly — a barely-drunk not-too-warm bottle of champagne.  
  
Harry’s got his jumper resting on the heated towel radiator and is singing _‘Blue Christmas’_ to himself as he uses a flannel to sponge off his torso when Nick appears in the doorway.  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Harry stills, the words _‘with your Christmas of white’_ freezing on his tongue.  
  
“Are you alright? I was looking for you. Missed you downstairs.”  
  
“Did you?” It comes out significantly more disbelieving then Harry would have liked. He feels a bit exposed. Traitorous voice.  
  
Nick glances at the bottle on the counter and then over at the jumper on the radiator and finally back at Harry. Harry thinks he might be looking at where Harry’s hands are poised over the butterfly on his stomach, but then he’s blinking up at him, mouth sort of pinched.  
  
“Yeah,” Nick answers finally and steps into the bathroom properly. He picks up the champagne and pours some into Harry’s now empty lowball glass. “You weren’t in the room with them all singing.”  
  
“Got mulled wine on my jumper,” Harry explains.  
  
“And your tummy and such,” Nick agrees. Harry’s rinsing the flannel under the tap, but he’s watching Nick in the mirror as Nick’s eyes flick towards Harry and down his body before he looks away again quickly and he takes a gulp from the glass.  
  
“Sticky,” Harry offers.  
  
“Right,” Nick says, almost resigned. “So, you got your top off.” He leans in close to Harry and grabs the champagne, holding still for an almost imperceptible moment, and Harry turns to look at him properly, not just in the reflection. But even as he moves his head Nick is gone, walking back out to his bed. “I have missed you,” he says as he goes and Harry has to stop wringing out the flannel for a moment. His stomach leaps, and he looks at his own reflection and blinks as the words wash over him.  
  
“Did you?” Harry watches his own mouth ask. His voice is less bitter.  
  
“More than I have before, I think. Got spoiled over the summer, even had you here for my birthday. And then all the planning for the telly and up in Manchester and — yeah.” There is a pause, and Harry can see from the corner of his eye that Nick has given up on the glass and is swigging straight from his bottle before he mutters, “Miss you all the time, Harry.”  
  
Harry walks out, stands in front of Nick. He feels odd, his heart beating fast with nerves but he’s overwhelmed with relief. His words come suddenly, and for once he doesn’t try to check them. “I missed you too. Been listening to the show, watched some old telly of yours. I thought. I don’t know. You've been busy. I felt odd this week.” He’s rubbing the palm of his hands on his thighs. They’ve gone all clammy.  
  
Nick swallows and looks up at him, an odd wondering look that turns into a small smile. He sounds confused when he speaks. “It’s just been a busy week. I wasn’t sure what you were doing. Aren’t you flying off somewhere for tour rehearsal or to do a quick EP or something?”  
  
Harry smiles back at Nick. He feels warmer, something a little freed up listening to Nick say that he missed him, listening to the way that he sounds nervous about the idea of Harry going away again. It sounds like proof that he matters. “I am, but here maybe?”  
  
Nick raises his eyebrow. “You’d know better than me.”

There’s a moment then, a noise in the background from downstairs and Nick’s eyes bright and fully fixed on Harry’s face. His freckles are standing out more than usual at the moment as Nick’s all wintery pale and it’s the first time in a long while, at least in Nick’s presence, that Harry allows himself to think about how much he wants to kiss him.  
  
“I’m recording the EP here,” Harry confirms. He swipes the bottle out of Nick’s hand and lifts it to his own lips. It bubbles up and out of his mouth, of course, dripping over his chin and down his chest. Harry coughs and spills more as he pulls back from the bottle and Nick’s laughing and, fuck. He’s a mess. Harry starts laughing too.  
  
“Going to be good having you around, Henry.”  
  
  
Nick’s scratching Pig on her neck when Harry comes back from the bathroom the second time. He’s been talking the whole while, telling Harry all about the Teen Awards and something Harry didn’t even know was possible to have happen with chorizo, mentioning when he’s leaving for Oldham for Christmas and how Harry should tell him when he's going up as well. That’s nice, that’s the main bit Harry’s thinking about, being included in important event future planning. Although the whole fast-paced slightly nonsensical prattle is good, too. It’s Nick, after all, and Nick is good.  
  
“Can I have a towel?” Harry asks, arms wrapped around himself as he goes a bit goose bumped.  
  
“Just in the walk-in there on the left.”  
  
Nick keeps talking about cured meats while Harry dries his chest and swipes a t-shirt that’s sitting on top of a large pile of folded washing.

 

It’s when he goes back out to the bedroom that it happens. He throws the towel at Nick and pulls the t-shirt over his head, gets tangled somehow and by the time he’s got his head through the proper hole, Nick is folding the towel up.  
  
He holds it out lengthwise, his arms stretched apart and Harry watches as he brings his hands in and meets them in the middle, watches as Nick deftly moves his left hand along the open edge and flips the towel so he can make the next fold. He uses his lap now as well, folding the towel over itself on his knees and Harry’s frozen on the spot — unable to look away, but he’s not seeing anything. He’s not hearing anything Nick is saying either; instead, his mind is full of a hotel room in Singapore, his laptop playing an old episode of Nick’s telly show and damn Joe Lycett whose favourite bloody ASMR video has been the exact opposite of relaxing for Harry.  
  
‘ _Fold that fucking towel fold that fucking towel fold that fucking towel’_ is all Harry can think.  
  
Shit, he’d played those twenty seconds again and again.  
  
“Are you alright, Harry?”  
  
“That towel is dirty,” he replies absently. His mouth a little dry and the words not more than a mumble.  
  
“What?” Nick’s stopped folding now, he’s looking at the soft white cotton in his lap and then back at him curiously. “What’re you on about? You’ve gone all pink.”  
  
Harry can feel that he has; everything is hot suddenly, his face especially. “That towel is dirty, you don’t need to fold it,” Harry says, trying very hard for nonchalant. “That’s all I was saying.” He’s coming off quite high pitched.  
  
“That’s why you drifted off, didn’t answer what I just asked you and then started blushing? You're worried about my laundry?” Nick asks, his tone very quizzical.  
  
“I’m not blushing,” Harry says mulishly. He can feel how hot his cheeks are, can’t stop bloody looking at Nick’s fingers as he draws circles in the pile of the damn towel.  
  
It was the way Nick said _‘fold the fuck out ’a you’_ that had done him in. The studio audience laughter ringing in his ears even now and, fucking Jesus — even the idea of it makes his dick twinge. Nick had said it with force. A hint of what it’d be like if he meant it.  
  
Well, that’s what Harry had imagined. Repeatedly. Across the Asian leg of the tour — his cock laying heavy and hot and ignored on his stomach as, with his head at the wrong end of the mattress, he would brace his feet on the head-boards of various hotel beds trying to enact having his legs bent back. Stretching his arms as he tried desperately to finger himself in a poor imitation of what he was imagining. His hands sloppy with lube and the angle terrible for his right wrist, but he couldn’t stop himself. It had all wormed its way into his head too much by then. It had become something he couldn’t stop replaying and acting out, tour stop after stop. Fingering himself and batting at the replay button on his phone and then finally, body aching with need and from the position he was trying desperately to mimic, he would grasp his dripping dick with a slightly numb slippery left hand and gasp out Nick’s name as he came.  
  
Nick scoffs. “You definitely are blushing. Why?” he asks again, and Harry can’t stand the scrutiny. He shakes his leg in what he hopes is a subtle way and adjusts his dick. Why on earth had he opted for his old jeans over that pair of loose mustard wool blend trousers when he got dressed earlier.  
  
“What the...” Nick’s mouth hangs slightly open, and he licks his lip so quickly Harry almost misses it. But doesn’t. And even that tiny amount of lip licking isn't helping. When Nick speaks again his voice is lower than usual.  
  
“Harry, are you alright?”  
  
“No,” Harry almost whines.  
  
Nick swallows but when he speaks his voice is very carefully calm, “Why?”  
  
Harry makes to bend over and reaches out for the champagne bottle that’s on the floor by Nick’s feet, but Nick reaches out and catches his wrist, holding him still. “I did miss you, you know.” Nick says, voice still very careful, and he looks down and away as he says this. Looking at where he’s holding Harry’s wrist.

“Me too,” Harry replies.

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe through the odd building of pressure that is lodged in his chest. He’s not sure why he’s not just finding an excuse, why he can’t stop himself. He’s not drunk, barely tipsy. Maybe it’s the relief. He’d been feeling slightly abandoned, as if all his fears that had built up while he was away, when the messages had dwindled and the welcome home wasn’t as emphatic as usual, had reason and grounds to exist.

It’s okay, though. Nick likes to talk about chorizo, and Nick likes him and Nick is happy at the idea of Harry recording in London and Nick is going to drive up to Oldham on the twenty-second, and yet still, something desperate and impulsive, and so so _so_ done with waiting and being alone, unfurls in him and spurs Harry to say, “I watched your towel video.” His eyes fly open, stunned at his own audacity.

Nick cocks his head to the side and grasps his wrist a little tighter as if he thinks Harry is about to run away. Which, fair, he would like to. “My what?”  
  
“The video of you and the towels. You doing that now reminded me of it.” Harry nods with his head towards Nick’s lap.  
  
Nick starts brushing his thumb gently on Harry’s wrist, but his fingers are still holding on strong and tight.

“You watched a video of me and towels, and thinking about that made you go all pink and adjust yourself in your jeans?” Nick’s not laughing, but if he didn't sound so confused, Harry knows he would be. “Am I wearing a towel in this video?” Nick continues. “Is it on holiday? Mallorca?”  
  
Harry makes a noise of frustration. He _wishes_ it was Mallorca. 

He does have a picture of Nick from Mallorca. From the next morning. Harry snapped it while he was still lying in yet another bed that Nick and he had tumbled into after a night full of anticipatory promise which ended up in nothing more than them curling up and sleeping. Nick's leg pressed against Harry's own and a lazy hand touching a rib. The picture is of the view through the doors out on the balcony. Nick’s not in a towel, just in his pants, legs all long, and his body just a shadow against the light. Harry's looked at that picture a lot as well, but it’s an entirely different longing he feels when he does.

“Sorry, just, you have to...” Nick pulls at Harry’s wrist then, makes him look back at him. His eyes are large, and there is something needy in them now. “You _have_ to tell me what makes you think of me like that Harry.” Nick’s voice grows small at the end, and Harry can’t deal with it at all.  
  
“I don’t think—” Harry starts, and stops. Clenches his free hand in a fist tight enough to feel his nails digging into his palm. He wants so much to reach out and cup Nick’s face. Kiss his stupid pointy lips. Kiss him at the start of the night not at the to-be-forgotten end of one. “I’m not meant to anymore, am I? But I do. Never stopped. Doesn’t have to be anything particular, I just do.” He says. Barely even processing he’s uttered the words out loud. Nick blinks up at him as the panic starts rising in Harry’s gut. “I think of you like that all the fucking time,” Harry finishes.

“Okay,” Nick says, sounds very far away.

“Can I have a drink now?” Harry asks. He feels too warm and his heart is rabbiting in his chest.  
  
“Yeah, yeah love, ‘course.” Nick is still very distracted sounding but he pulls Harry’s wrist again, this time to encourage him to sit on the bed, and Harry does. He leans over and picks up the bottle and takes a cautious sip.  
  
Nick turns towards him. “Surprised it’s got any bubbles still, was drinking that when Gellz and I were getting dressed.”  
  
Harry wipes his mouth and passes the bottle to Nick. “Well it’s bubbly,” he says flatly.  
  
“So, I have a party worth of people in my house,” Nick says equally flatly, taking his own sip.  
  
“I can wait.” Harry smiles hesitantly, feels almost like crying. Is this going well? He thinks maybe it is.  
  
Nick reaches out a hand and with just the edge of his index finger, grazes Harry’s cheek. Harry has to stop himself from nudging into it. It _is_ going well. Nick’s hand drops back down to his lap and his soft smile sharpens as he pats the towel sitting there still. “But what was it about the towels, though?”  
  
Harry swallows. Not so well after all. He moans and makes to grab the bottle back from Nick who tuts and shakes his head, “None of that, finish your story, Harold.”

And Harry knows he could get up and go. Knows he doesn’t have to keep on. But also. He wants to so much. It’s embarrassing and a bit stupid but there's something so exposing about the whole thing that’s almost intoxicating. “I was in Shanghai, you hadn’t messaged me back, and that was after we hadn’t managed to see each other when I was back from Italy, and...” Harry takes a deep breath, “and that's when I watched the first one, in Shanghai.”  
  
“Okay?” Nick passes the bottle to Harry and waits while he has another sip.  
  
“Well, then you were sick, and didn’t message at all but I didn’t know you were sick and I was in Singapore, and it was crazy and I couldn’t sleep and no amount of melatonin would help,” Harry makes a wry sort of attempt at a laugh, “so I watched more episodes, well the same one. I watched it a few times...”  
  
“More of what?” Nick interrupts.  
  
”Your show, _Sweat the Small Stuff_ , on Youtube.”  
  
“Oh god!” Nick exclaims, dragging out the word and covering his face with his hand. “Right desperate for something to do then, were you?”  
  
Harry laughs then too, high-pitched and a little strangled. “Desperate, ha!”  
  
And that's when Nick drops his hand, and with his eyes widening as he lets out a soft, “Oh.” and he runs his hand over the towel in his lap.  
  
Harry gulps at the bottle again, tips it back too quickly and it fizzes and runs down his chin. His heart is beating fast, and he can’t look away from Nick.  
  
“Ohh, Harry.” Nick's mouth ticks upwards, and he sounds so pleased, amused but something else as well. “With Joe was it? So, is it the same thing then, do you like watching a nice Turkish cotton get all folded for the linen press?”

Harry shakes his head no, still can’t look away from Nick, still doesn’t wipe his chin.

"Oh, alright." Nick sounds like he’s trying to understand something somewhat incomprehensible. “So, repeatedly, you said. And did you watch all of it? All of that show repeatedly?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Just the bit with me ‘n the towel, then?” Nick asks carefully.

Harry nods now.

It's quiet for a moment, and then Nick is so slow when he speaks next. “I don’t know if I can remember properly now, what did I say?”

Something is shifting, Harry can feel his heart racing and knows he’s still pink, but it’s as if he’s mesmerised and can’t look away. He’s a deer in the headlights, and he can't stop this now. It’s all a horrid beautiful inevitability that he’s going to tell Nick everything. “You said the towel was dirty,” Harry whispers.

“Did I?”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes in. “Said the towel was dirty and then you said I’m going to fold the fuck out of you.”

“Open your eyes, love,” Nick says quietly, and his fingertips are cool and soft on the top of Harry’s hand.

Harry can’t, not yet, he has to say it all. “You said fold that shit, and that it was naughty — the towel was naughty. But the way...” And he gives up, looks at Nick, whose eyes are very dark and whose mouth is _just_ parted. He’s still looking at Harry as if he may take fright and run away any moment. “Just the way you said it. The way you said _fuck_.” Harry breathes.

“How Harry? How’d I say it?”

“Like you meant it a bit. Like I could pretend.” And Harry stops, he takes another huge breath in, and Nick’s eyes drop down for a moment and then back up.

“You pretended?”

“Yeah.”

Nick swallows. “Pretended I was talking to you, Harry? Telling you that you were dirty?” Harry nods and Nick shifts closer and takes the bottle out of Harry’s other hand. Leans to drop it on the floor saying, “You pretended I was telling you I was going to—” he’s looking down at Harry’s lips maybe, “—to fuck you?”

Harry is suddenly conscious that he’s breathing fast, still too hot. He shifted on the bed when Nick moved, and he has to settle himself again, and it’s only now that he realises he’s almost proper hard in his jeans. His mind lost in hotel rooms in Sydney and Melbourne and Auckland, working himself over desperately with one hand while the other pathetically pressed replay on a voice note he took of Nick saying those phrases.

“How often did you pretend, Harry?” Nick asks, his hand on Harry’s thigh now, and he brings his other one up and just brushes Harry's face again. “Do I say other things?” Nick’s thumb swiping over the remnants of the champagne drops on Harry’s chin. The rough pad of his thumb a little grounding.

Harry nods, he’s not sure what’s happening. Part of him is still sure Nick’s going to laugh at him in a moment, but Nick's also different than usual. Both hesitant but demanding, as if he needs Harry to give him something, to allow him something, his tone low and caring.

“I’d think about you calling me naughty, but also.” Harry glances at Nick’s face, so close, mouth wide and lips close. So close. “Also calling me good.”

Nick inhales sharply, but he’s so soft when he replies, “Yeah, I would Harry. Fuck. I’d call you good, you know. Pretty, and good and naughty, all at the same time. You are, you know? You’re wicked and so good.” He’s careful in the way he’s speaking, not rushed like Harry was before. His hands are still busy, still warm on Harry’s thigh, the other still rubbing tiny circles just where Harry’s neck meets his jaw, where his skin is so sensitive. And Harry probably should be thinking a million things about why this is happening _now,_ and is it because they’ve both had a few drinks and for fucks sake, what happens after _this_ happens - but he can’t help himself. He makes a quiet little moan and tips his face up, wants Nick to kiss him.

Nick swallows and asks, “Is that what you want, then? You want me to fuck you, tell you all the things you make me feel, tell you how I’d be with you? Tell you I’d fuck the fuck out you and then do it.”

Harry opens his eyes. Nick’s face is no nearer he’s still just gently touching, fingers tangled in Harry’s hair just above his ear now. Harry nods. “Yea... yeah.” he smiles gently, lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and something low and hot twists deep inside him. “Fuck yes.”

Nick leans forward, and Harry tilts his face up again but Nick noses at his cheek, shudders a breath of his own and kisses him on the cheek, hand cupping the side of Harry’s face and it’s only now that Harry realises how much Nick is affected by all this as well. He takes his chance and turns his head. His hands find some sort of movement, and he reaches up and grabs at Nick’s shoulders, claws at his jumper and pulls him in while he kisses him. Too hard maybe, a bit of a mess, but he doesn’t want Nick to go, needs to grab this, feel this. He can hear Nick in his mind again, authoritative and entertained all at once, saying ‘fuck the fuck out of you’ and Harry kisses him with more tongue, with a suck at Nick’s upper lip, with his fingers squeezing his shoulder tight.

Nick tries to pull back, but Harry follows and Nick makes his own cut off moan and kisses him again, grabs at the back of Harry’s hair and takes control, licks into his mouth and slips his other hand around his waist. Harry goes with it, loves it. This isn’t just some drunk fumble like every time before, and he’s wanted to properly kiss Nick for so long, for years before Mallorca and for all the months afterwards. He could cry.

“Harry, Harry,” Nick whispers when he pulls away entirely, turning his face until he’s moved far enough that Harry can’t chase him. Instead, he blinks, letting the room come back into focus, taking in Nick’s pink cheeks and lips. The wetness Harry left there.

“Party,” Nick utters with finality.

“Okay.” Harry nods, then smiles, then starts laughing. “Fuck.”

Nick grins back. “I know. I know.” He says ruefully.

Nick twists away, back to facing the walk-in, absently picking up the towel that’s still hanging over one of his legs. Harry watches as he smooths it out, folds it a little straighter and looks up at Harry suddenly, his eyes sparkling.

“You trust me, Harry?”

“Always,” Harry says still dazed.

Nick looks very pleased with this, surprised maybe. He opens his mouth and shuts it again, and through his haze of lingering embarrassment and generally being pretty turned-on, Harry feels that heaviness in the pit of his stomach that he gets sometimes. The heaviness that he can’t give Nick enough, that he will never be able to let him know or show him what he is to Harry; what they could be.

“And you did...” Nick hesitates, “You proper thought of me, talking to you while you got off.” Harry watches him as he holds his breath a moment, smiles at him softly, lets the weight in his stomach dissipate.

“You have no idea.”

“Yeah?”  Nick’s eyes are dark, he’s leaning in again.

Harry smiles, makes to poke his tongue out and catches it with his teeth, “I thought of you, I _think_ of you. Telling me what to do, sorting me out, letting me be all...”

Nick interrupts, “Naughty?”  

Harry nods. Nick licks his lip and nods like he’s sure of something. Which is good. Harry prefers that. He’s still slightly disconcerted that he’s said any of this. That he’s kissed Nick. Fuck. He’s kissed Nick.

I like it when you do that,” Nick says.

“Do what?” Harry blinks at him. Nick stands up, he puts the towel on the bed and holds out his hand to him. Harry takes it and lets Nick pull him up as well.

“I like it when you blush. Lets me know when you’re thinking about something that you're not meant to.”

Harry hadn’t even realised that he was blushing again, but maybe he’d never stopped.

Nick continues, his voice low and his body lined up with Harry’s completely. They’re all in each other’s space. “And you’ve put this all in my mind now, right in the middle of my party.” Nick puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder. It’s large and warm, a thumb pressing just under Harry’s clavicle. Once more Harry finds it grounding, the pressure of Nick’s thumb and the wry note that enters Nick’s voice as he continues. “Not that it wasn’t there already. Just that it’s something we could actually…” he stops, takes a deep breath and with a crooked smile says, “Well, you are not a very good party guest is all. Very distracting.”

At this, he finally leans in and kisses him, simple but long. Harry tries to make it deeper, tries to take more. He wants more even though he knows Nick’s got his mind on the rooms full of people downstairs. But the party is still keeping on without them, and Harry has waited for years so Harry pushes up against the length of Nick’s body and sucks at his bottom lip greedily. Nick stops him as he presses in closer, pulls away laughing a little. “Naughty,” he mutters, eyes warm and walks off into the wardrobe.

Harry takes a deep breath, his heart is beating fast, and it’s a bit too much. He can only think of Nick’s mouth. Needs it back. He’s about to follow Nick when Nick calls out to him.

“So, Harry. I’m going to pop a nice shirt on you, not that old gym t-shirt. Something I can leave some buttons open on so I can watch when you blush how it spreads down your neck, and then you and I are going to go back down there. You're going to sing something and put us all to shame, and I’m going to be a perfect host.”

“What?” Harry had been hoping for a plan more along the lines of _‘let's sabotage the Karaoke machine, chuck everyone out of the house and go have sex in the linen cupboard’,_ not continued party hosting and attendance. “Why am I going to be blushing more?”

Nick turns around, something blue with a pattern on it in his hands as he crosses back to where Harry’s standing. “I’m going to go be a perfect host, and only when I’ve hosted the _fuck_ out of my little party will we come back up here, and I will...” Nick pulls him in by the hips. The pressure of Nick’s body on Harry’s dick is wonderful, and Harry breathes out shakily. “Bring you back up here and kiss you proper, tell you how naughty you are, let you do whatever that wicked mouth wants, see if you’ll let me tell you how good you look under me.”

He leans down, lips moving across Harry’s cheek as he keeps talking, Harry feels maybe sweaty, but as if every hair is standing on end in reaction to Nick's words. “Going to get you all folded over and under me — if you let me, legs all pressed in tight, and I’ll fuck you, Harry, slow and long, do it till you're crying for it faster, for me to fucking _fuck you_.”

Harry shivers, gasps as Nick sucks at his neck hard and biting. He’ll have a mark.

He doesn’t care.

  
⌤⌤⌤

  
Nick is being the perfect host, and it’s fucking infuriating.

Harry is wearing the shirt with the buttons mostly undone. It’s a nice lightweight, soft cotton in dark blue with a random pattern of x’s on it in another shade of dark blue, and it’s too hot.

He’d felt okay when he first got back downstairs. A bit unbalanced, but his world had just shifted somewhat. He’d gone upstairs chasing Pig and not feeling good about her ignoring him and come back with what he really wanted ― which was Nick to stop, well, not ignoring him, but to stop being so distant. And fuck, he really had got rid of that distance for a moment. But now it's somehow worse.

Harry watches him now from across the kitchen. Nick said he was going to go and fetch drinks and Harry had been intercepted by Chris from Nick’s work, so he hadn’t followed. Instead, he’d listened carefully to Chris’ questions about the Asian leg of the tour and answered politely. He’s always polite, makes a point of it. Famously polite, but it’s an effort right now and that’s entirely Nick’s fault.

Nick is doing everything so carefully. Slicing lemon, making drinks and wiping the board down with some kitchen towel. When he’s done with that, he looks right at Harry and folds the fucking kitchen towel in half and then in quarters with two long index fingers before just throwing it away. He looks at Harry with one arched brow that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Ian joins Harry and Chris, and as nice as it is too see him, it’s hard for Harry to look anywhere but back towards Nick. Nick is laughing with Henry while he wipes his hands on a tea-towel before hanging it neatly over the oven door handle. Even that smoothing of material makes Harry’s mouth dry.

“Chris, Ian,” Nick greets them when he comes over Henry following and all of a sudden Pixie comes downstairs to the kitchen joining them by stealing the second glass out of Nick’s hand.

“Water?” She questions after having a sip.

“It’s for Harry,” Nick says and passes his other glass to him.

Harry had thought he wanted to drink more, but he realises Nick’s right. He doesn’t. He’s thirsty and wants to keep what little is left of his wits about him.

“Is that my shirt?” Henry pipes up then and pinches at the material on Harry’s chest.

“No, it’s Nick’s,” Harry answers automatically.

Aimee comes down from the sitting room then, which is great because that gives Pixie the chance to turn and greet her with, "Harry's not wearing what he was in when he arrived, you know Aimes? Nick's only gone and redressed him."

Which isn’t fair, because it was Pixie’s fault that Harry had to change his jumper in the first place.

“It is mine then, not released yet. Only Nick and George have this one,” Henry continues, “You’re meant to keep that for the launch next week Grim.”

Harry had been about to remind Pixie it was all her fault to start with, but he doesn’t really know how to explain why he’s wearing Nick’s special shirt. So instead he holds the glass of water up to his cheek and looks at Nick, who’s sipping his drink and looking quite pleased with himself as if he’s just had a brilliant thought he’s about to share with them all. “Harry got his top all dirty, didn’t he? I folded it up and put it in the laundry for him,” Nick says. Pleased as punch.

And it makes no sense. Who folds up laundry to put in the dirty clothes basket? But it’s irrelevant really, because Harry doesn’t hear that his top is all dirty, he hears that _he_ is, and he doesn’t hear ‘fold’ he hears ‘fuck’, and he doesn’t hear Nick saying that he put it in the laundry for him, just that Nick did something for him, took care of him. Just like Harry didn’t see Nick’s fingers making careful lines in the damn kitchen roll but instead he felt the ghost of them running down his own body.

“I should have brought an outfit change,” Aimee drawls.

“Let’s put tinsel in your hair,” suggests Henry.

Nick’s still looking at Harry, mischievous and wonderful and then a voice calls out from the fridge, “Grim, got any more ice?” and suddenly he’s off, doing the damn party hosting again.

“Going to go sing a song, I think,” Harry decides, and with a polite nod towards Chris — because he would like his songs to continue to get played on Nick’s radio station — he goes upstairs.

⌤

It gets worse in the sitting room. Or more accurately, as the evening continues, Nick gets worse.

There are only about fifteen or so people left now, not that it was a huge party, and the group that is there is lovely. Just people Harry knows and trusts, and there’s so much laughing. The fire is on, and Pig comes back which is good because Stinky and her curl up together in front of it and, just, god they are cute. All in all, Harry would be having a wonderful night, if it wasn’t for Nick.

He doesn’t stay next to Harry all night, after all, he’s off ‘hosting the fuck out of his party.’ But he’s somehow always present. Harry’s never not aware of Nick being aware of him. It’s an odd thing. It means that he’s always slightly distracted. And he realises quickly that is precisely what Nick wants; Harry to have one part of his mind elsewhere at all times, one part of him that’s thinking about what just happened, what’s going to happen. And he doesn’t dislike it. It’s nice, Nick wanting Harry to be thinking about him, but also Nick making sure Harry knows that this is something that Nick isn’t going to let slide. It’s a long promise for later.

 

For the most part, Nick is never directly attentive to Harry. He spends a lot of time fetching drinks and filling up bowls of crisps and finding a nail file for Fifi when she breaks a nail. He describes everything he’s doing in a nonsensical and slightly exaggerated way which is making the others giggle at his random exclamations of ‘oh just tipping that crisp packet over the bowl, look at ‘em all oily and salty.’ Then a little later as he picks up a cushion that George has knocked off the armchair and gives it a good solid hit back into shape ‘I’ll just fluff that up and let me slide it in the back there for you, George.’ His eyes finding Harry’s as he slots the damn tufted devil pillow behind George who doesn't give a fuck because he’s too busy videoing Pixie singing _Sleigh Bells_.

 

His eyes find Harry’s while he sorts out a cord for the Karaoke machine, pulling it taught between his two arms with a snap and then wrapping it around his forearm, his stupid big hand balled in a fist. Harry thinks how now that Nick is a possibility - so close to being a reality even, that any movement is a promise of something else.  

That snap of the cord is a slap on his skin, maybe.

Would Nick do that if Harry asked him to? Harry thinks he would. Those hands.

 

He’s thought about what they would do so many times over the years; if they ever took it further than the messy kisses they shared sometimes early on. High or drunk at the end of a night, a fumble in a taxi, a back pressed against a wall of a club before stumbling past the paps. It always ending in nothing, until eventually the kissing just ended. It seemed that kissing, and all else that goes along with it, other people was easier for them both.

Harry knows neither of them have any idea how to deal with the practicalities, the distance. Harry has too many lives, Nick has a large one. But somehow, they always end up back with each other, especially when it counts. Christmas last year, New York in April, that afternoon in late June which had been all too close to last December.

 

Harry’s jolted out of his wandering thoughts as Nick passes him, brushing his hand deliberately along Harry’s back as he goes to answer the door for the pizzas someone ordered. There’s only a moment before Nick calls loudly from the front door for Harry. And of course, he has no cash, wants Harry to pay. Which is fine, Harry’s pleased to help. Nick tells him 'thank you' in a solemn low voice juxtaposed by one side of his mouth quirking up as they stand next to each other at the door, waiting while the delivery guy looks for change. Harry is so lost in it. Both of them in the hallway, the noise of the party flowing from the open door to the sitting room but just Harry and Nick in the dim light by the door. Nick’s gaze flicks from Harry’s mouth to his eyes. He’s holding the boxes in one arm, but he touches a strand of hair at Harry’s temple very softly.

“Thanks, Harry. You’re so good for me,” he says, and Harry’s hot all over again.

The delivery man coughs, and Harry looks at his out-held hand holding five quid.

“Shit, no sorry, here, keep that - in fact take this,” he fumbles with his wallet again and hands over the first note he pulls out, a tenner, and pushes it into the guy's hand.

“Harold,” Nick smiles as he shuts the door, “no stingy popstar reports in the papers then.” he holds still for a moment, the glint in his eye fading for just that moment. “You…” he starts, and then he bites his lip and says in almost his normal jovial tone, “Come on, going to make you watch me serve these pizzas.”

 

Watching Nick serve pizzas primarily involves Nick fetching everyone napkins. Emily is stunned. Harry knows this because she keeps exclaiming, “Nick! I am stunned, utterly stunned! I’d no idea we even had linen! Where are you getting all these from? Oh my god is that one embroidered!”

“Got a whole napkin ‘n tablecloth drawer in the built-ins in the kitchen, Emily,” Nick throws over his shoulder with an exaggerated eyebrow raise as he turns and bustles around Collette. He’s making a terrible fuss of unfolding a nice crisp white napkin for her.

Alexa is trying to hand Harry a microphone and he really should be looking at whatever song she’s just selected for them, but he’s not. He feels oddly compelled to watch Nick. Knows that Nick will look up in a moment to see if he’s watching and Harry wants to please him. He wants Nick to see that he’s not taken his eyes off him all evening. Wants Nick to know that while he’s amused, frustrated and maybe getting oddly turned on by household linens, he’s also there with him. They’re in this together, playing some sort of odd game that means neither of them want to forget what happened upstairs.

“Shake it out, Nicholas!” Collette calls out impatiently, making to grab the napkin, pizza hanging dangerously in her other hand. Nick just looks to Harry, like Harry had known he would, and having unfolded the stupid bit of material he then refolds it the opposite length and drapes it over Collette’s sequined trousers. His fingers held high and elongated - careful but sure.

Harry can feel himself getting all warm again. He’s thought about Nick’s fingers before. Often, really. After he found the bloody towel video, he thought of them a lot. He keeps thinking about them as Alexa starts singing. Nick’s flapping a napkin like he’s starting a road race in a 1950’s film and then he tucks the damn thing into a very bemused looking George’s collar and smooths it down, hand patting at his chest, that left ring finger a little crooked.

Alexa and Harry are singing _Last Christmas_ and Harry can only stumble over ‘ _I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye_ ’.

 

⌤⌤⌤

 

Karaoke stops because Nick doesn’t want anyone knocking with an abatement order. The few people that are left are either outside in the garden or milling in the kitchen. Harry leaves Pixie and Alexa outside smoking and goes inside, to see Nick standing near the sink with Emily and George. He’s got the water rushing out of the tap and is holding a pair of Marigolds in a contemplative manner.

This wonderful exasperating fucker. As _if_ he’s going to wash even a single dish when Harry's been waiting all night.

Harry marches over to the bench and grabs the almost empty vodka. He’s sobered up now. Sober, but flushed and full of nerves, and as fun as it’s all been, he’s sick of Nick teasing, and just wants to get on with teasing Nick back.

“Hey!” Nick says a little sharply. Emily and George are not paying them any attention at all. Harry just looks at Nick with his best journalist-asking-intrusive-questions-blank-face and pours a measure of vodka into a clean looking wine glass sitting nearby. “Meant to stay sober, we are,” Nick follows up with a low voice.

Harry cuts a wedge of the lemon and squeezes it over his poured vodka. Raises his hand high and lets the twisted segment drop to the bench top as a petulant punctuation. Then very deliberately opens his mouth, tongue dipping over his bottom lip and gently sucks his index finger into his lips. Makes a kissy noise as he does it and even though it’s so deliberate and cheesy, Harry’s very happy to see that Nick’s proper focused on his lips. Nick absently puts on his stupid gloves and actually picks up a dirty glass while he watches Harry.

It gives him a rush. There's something about having Nick watching _him_ , in contrast to how Harry has been tracking Nick’s every move all night, that makes a bit of blood rush to his cock and instead of breaking off into laughter it spurs him on.

There’s juice on his thumb, so he sucks that off for good measure. Letting the pad of his thumb sit on his tongue, mouth a little bit open, he drags it down across his lips. He uses his index finger to toy with his bottom lip for a moment and then languidly drifts his hand from his chin down to his chest, hand spread, one of his long fingers a-top an open button and his ring and little finger dipping under the front. He likes it. Likes touching himself while Nick’s looking. Likes doing this in the middle of the room, on show for everyone if they only bothered to look - but at the moment it’s just him and Nick. Harry can’t help smiling at the thought. He bites his tongue, smirks as Nick drops the glass he’s rinsing into the sink with a clatter and breaks the moment.

“Pour me one, Harold,” Nick says in scratched voice.

Harry does. He pours one into an abandoned heavy-based shot glass, and Nick’s still got his gloves on so Harry picks up it up and walks around the island. Steps into Nick’s space and looks up at him blinking deliberately he licks his lip and says, “I hate your gloves.”

“Terrible things.” Nick agrees. He’s very close, bends his head little towards Harry before swaying away again.

“Tip your head back I guess,” Harry suggests and goes up on his toes a little, side of his body pressed into Nick as he raises his hand and the glass up. Nick looks like he’s about to protest, but Harry’s got the lip of the thing by Nick’s mouth, and Harry just keeps moving.

“One - two - three,” Harry counts and tips the glass as Nick moves his head back and swallows.

Harry thinks it’s quite successful really. There is only a bit of the vodka spilt on Nick’s chin, and Nick doesn’t splutter. Instead, he puts one Marigold-clad hand around the side of Harry that’s all pressed against him and holds him in close while saying, “Thanks, Popstar.”

His lips are wet, and Harry drops the glass into the sink and reaches up to that drip on Nick’s chin.

“Do you know I have to buy these at a special shop?” Nick starts, chin moving as Harry swipes. His voice dies away as Harry makes a show of licking the vodka off his finger. “Stop sucking everything.” Nick growls through gritted teeth, all while squeezing Harry tighter and closer. Harry can feel the shirt he’s got on is damp under Nick’s glove.

“Getting me all wet, Nick,” he says with a wiggle.

“Good,” Nick replies firmly, looking at Harry’s mouth. Harry thinks maybe he’s about to be kissed for the first time by a person who’s wearing Marigolds. “Going to get you proper filthy wet, you little…”

“Oh my god! Alright! Um, Nick, we’re off!” Pixie calls out from behind Harry and Alexa starts laughing. Nick stops saying whatever very interesting thing he was about to say and is instead letting go of Harry.

Nick mutters, “Great moment to come inside that,” and starts pulling off his silly gloves. Harry tries to fix an unconcerned sort of look on his face.

“George!” Pixie’s calling out loudly while looking at them both, very amused.

“Bye.” Harry says with a wave. He doesn’t go around the counter to kiss Alexa goodbye. They’re all already too gleeful with the stifled laughter and the _looks_. Plus, Harry’s semi-hard in his jeans. Best to stay behind the counter. Nick is off though, helping round everyone up and saying something about fetching coats as he goes up to the sitting room with the girls. Harry can hear everyone laughing, and his heart sinks. They’re probably all going to end up putting on a movie and never leaving.

Harry gets a bottle of water out of the fridge and goes up the stairs to the hallway himself, but instead of following them into the sitting room he turns and heads up another level. He pads softly up the treads and hopes if anyone catches his feet out of the corner of their eye, they keep quiet.

 

⌤⌤⌤

 

When he pushes open the door to Nick’s room, he’s all nervous again. He’s trying not to let himself think about it, trying to slot it into the ‘already done’ category in his mind: too late to take it back now. But there are butterflies in his stomach whispering that it’s not done at all — that it hasn't even started. Might not start. That Nick might not even come upstairs now or at least Harry could be asleep by the time he does. This whole evening just ending up a very embarrassing reason to avoid terry towelling forever. Harry takes a deep breath and decides to go take a piss. It seems the best thing to do is something nice and basic and very practical.

He takes his time washing his hands, wonders if he should extend the doing-something-practical to having a shower, but decides it might be a bit too much really. He washed before he came out tonight. Instead, he stills and looks at himself in the mirror. His neck has the faintest pink mark on it, his hair is floppy, and the colour in his cheeks heightened.  The butterflies haven't gone anywhere, and maybe it would be better to go back down and see what Nick is doing, better than just oddly waiting in his room for who knows how long - when Harry hears him coming into the room. Somewhat nonsensically it makes Harry turn the taps on with a start. He'd feel foolish to be caught standing in the bathroom staring at himself.

 

“Harry?” Nick says, and then he’s there in the doorway. Harry looks at him in the mirror. His hair is falling down but he’s still all sort of glowy, not tired at all and with the best type of cautious smile on his face.

“In here,” Harry replies with a quick smile to Nick, and then he looks down at his hands, very carefully rubbing the slightly bubbled liquid between his index and middle fingers.

In a swift movement, Nick’s behind him. Body pressed against his and arms wrapped around his front. He slides his hands over the top of Harry’s soap slippery own and nudges at his head until Harry lets his neck be a little more on display. Harry meets his eyes in the mirror and leans back into him without even thinking about it.

“Almost thought you went home for a moment,” Nick says in his ear, breath hot and ticklish and making the hairs on Harry’s arms stand up.

“Nope. Just snuck away.”

“Getting all clean, hey?” Nick kisses his neck then, simple, just lingering peck a little lower behind his ear and Harry watches him do it, the way he shuts his eyes and stills while his lips are pressed to Harry’s skin. There’s a certainty to the way that he kisses Harry, even when it’s just a soft press of lips against skin.

Nick is meeting his gaze in the mirror before Harry’s finished processing it all. Smirk on his face, he turns Harry’s hands over. “They look clean to me,” Nick says as he slides his hands up Harry’s forearms, “feel clean too.” He doesn’t break eye contact, skips his hands up over the rolled-up sleeves of Harry’s shirt and squeezes his biceps. The teasing smirk disappears however as Nick’s hands move across over Harry’s chest. Harry feels hot and under scrutiny and he likes it, likes how dark Nick’s eyes seem in the mirror as he starts unbuttoning Harry’s shirt.

“You should keep this maybe,” Nick says as he works to open the button just under Harry’s butterfly tattoo. Nick’s stupid long fingers twist quickly, and then he pulls the shirt off Harry’s shoulders so it hangs open, showing his chest.

“You don't seem to like it on me much,” Harry says, trying for nonchalant, but his breath hitches as Nick flattens the palm of one hand against his stomach. It's cold and ticklish all at once, and Nick uses the flat of his hand to hold Harry in place while he rubs his fingers roughly over Harry’s nipple with his other. Harry squirms, and he can’t be blamed for it, not with Nick all firm and confident, still watching Harry’s reactions in the mirror.

 

Downstairs Harry knew that whatever Nick was doing he was still paying him attention, but it was diluted. Now there’s no escape, just Nick looking at him with an intensity that says he’s been waiting much longer than just the last few hours to have Harry like this. Which they have, despite his nerves and normally strict adherence to not acknowledging it, Harry knows they _both_ have.

“Watch,” Nick says to Harry then, as if Harry could stop.

Nick bites Harry’s earlobe very gently and then moves down to kiss Harry's neck again. Harry tilts his head to give Nick more access but makes sure to keep his eyes open. Looks at Nick’s lashes dark against his cheekbones, looks at Nick’s hand splayed across his stomach, gasps as Nick sucks harder at his neck, a sharp little nip with his teeth, and then moves his mouth, finds a new patch of skin to tease.

Harry wants to shut his eyes and just give up and let Nick take his weight, wants to allow him the freedom to kiss and mark where he wants. His skin is a bit too sensitive, and he’s getting pretty fucking hard. He’d really like to get a hand on himself, to be honest, but Nick didn’t say he could do that. He just said Harry should watch. And like he did at the front door, Harry would really like Nick to call him ‘good’ again.

So, Harry does. He watches as Nick rubs a circle around Harry’s nipple before pinching it between his thumb and the side of his forefinger. Harry lets out a gasp and jerks forward at the sting, making Nick tear his mouth from Harry’s neck and look up. The pleasant hurt is utterly wiped from Harry’s mind when he meets Nick’s eyes in the mirror — so dark and his mouth so wet. Nick pulls him in nice and close and again, pushing up against him from behind and pushing his dick against Harry’s arse.

“Nick,” Harry says, not knowing what he’s asking.

“Mmm,” Nick hums, assessing. “Looks too dark, that one, doesn’t it? Got to get you pink everywhere.”

Harry thinks Nick is mainly talking to himself, but that doesn’t stop the words from making Harry even harder. Making him feel like he’s something for Nick to touch and play with. He’s dying to get a hand on himself, dying for _Nick_ to slide his hands lower. But the waiting is so good. The waiting and being watched and the way Nick talks to him and the way he feels like it’s okay. He’s still nervous, but it’s safe. A hot, pleasurable kind of nervousness. He’s hard and getting desperate but also Nick is there, literally at his back, keeping Harry close. Touching Harry gently but a little rough all at once. Moving his hands as if he can’t decide what part of Harry he wants to explore. Harry’s skin is hot where Nick isn’t touching, and boiling where Nick is.

Nick’s worrying Harry’s nipple still while mouthing at the other side of his neck, head tipped down, wilted quiff tickling Harry’s collarbone because he’s nuzzled right into the base to Harry’s neck. He presses a fucking nail right into Harry’s nipple, making Harry shudder as he tries to move away from it, but all this does is leave him arching his body back into Nick’s. The press of Nick’s dick hard and thrilling against Harry’s arse.

“Keep watching,” Nick instructs, teeth pulling across Harry’s neck.

Harry’s so sensitive there, and he’s not really sure how Nick guessed, but it’s all such a fucking turn on; the biting and the little sparks of pain. The assurance he feels that Nick knows what he’s doing. He likes watching Nick and his sure, precise movements. And Harry can see the reactions Nick is pulling from him as well. He bites his lip, he’s flushed down to his chest and feeling hot all over — bordering on getting sweaty. Nick’s turned the skin surrounding both his pebbled nipples pink and angry looking.

Harry sucks in a shaky breath as Nick moves up behind his ear, makes a noise he's not overly proud of as he finds Nick’s eyes in the mirror. It’s a jolt. It makes his dick actually fucking twitch, the blurring sensations of Nick’s touch and the feeling of being a voyeur to what he's actually experiencing. Harry’s senses feel overwhelmed already, and then there's Nick. The darkness in his eyes and the way his hands hold Harry’s hips in place. Nick’s all fierce in a way that Harry’s not seen before, and it’s brilliant and a lot and so fucking hot.

Nick finally slides one hand down and just palms Harry through his jeans. It’s lucky he keeps other hand holding firm, keeps Harry right against him, because he's all that keeps Harry standing up. All those moments of waiting and that’s it. Just a straightforward crotch grab. Harry bucks forward with the eagerness of a teenager and makes a noise that is almost too loud and embarrassing with need.

“So hard, aren’t you? Look so good for me. Do you like it, all on display like that?” Nick’s voice is low, his lips moving against the sensitive burning skin of Harry’s neck. “Show me more, undo your jeans.”

Nick holds him by his hips while Harry slips sweaty fingers over the button of his jeans and gingerly undoes his flies. He looks back up from this task, meets Nick’s eyes in the mirror - silently asking if he’s done this right and what to do next.

“Go on, show me.” Nick’s lips ghost over the back of Harry’s ear. He’s always there, teasing and warm, just like he’s been there all night. Like he’s been for years, really.

Harry is so sensitive to the heat of Nick’s breath, the softness of his lips and the spike of his teeth. Each time he looks at Nick he gets slightly more dazed. He licks his lips and attempts to push his jeans and pants down in one awkward movement. Nick’s still holding onto his hips in a proprietary way. Like Harry is something he doesn’t want to let go. It’s nice, and Harry's very into it, but it does make it more awkward for him to shuffle around. He _really_ should have worn the mustard wool blend Gucci trousers. Harry wiggles and his dick pulls down with his pants and bobs back up. He’s so hard and his dick bouncing around seems a bit ridiculous. He never gets embarrassed about anything to do with sex, but it’s different with Nick. He makes Harry flustered. Happily flustered, but still.

He only gets his jeans and pants as far as his mid-thigh before Nick speaks again and he sounds soft and disbelieving, “Look at you Harry, fuck.” He puts both hands on Harry’s hips and holds him in place as if he’s showing Harry off to himself.

Harry looks up to meet Nick’s eyes in the mirror. His pupils are so dilated, blown black against the hazel and his lips a lovely deep colour. That’s from kissing me, Harry realises — Nick’s lips are like that from kissing his neck. It’s gratifying to Harry on an utterly base level, seeing a stain from him left on Nick’s skin.

“No,” Nick smiles. “Not at me, look at you. All pink and hard and lovely, aren’t you? Proper fucking lovely.”

Nick’s words, his attention and praise, make Harry more worked up if anything. He’s thought about Nick telling him what he’d do to him for so long, fantasised about those stupid fucking words from that stupid show, and now, now it’s real.

Nick reaches down and wraps a loose hand around Harry’s dick, “Feel so hard, Harry.” Nick plays with the head of Harry’s cock, his touch light as he brushes his thumb over Harry’s slit. It’s a lot, but it’s not at all enough for Harry at the moment. Not with how hard he is, not with the way his skin is so overheated under Nick’s eyes.

“Nick,” he pleads as he moves his hips, trying to thrust into Nick’s hand. Harry can feel Nick’s hard as well, pressed tight against the swell of Harry’s arse, and maybe that’s how Harry can get what he wants. He moves his hips again, rubbing against Nick and thrills at the groan Nick makes.

“Cheeky.” Nick tells him off, “You want more? Do that then, you do the work, show me.” Nick holds his hand still, and Harry doesn’t hesitate. He’s been told to move and he likes to please and fuck knows he’s utterly desperate to get off. He fucks into the loose circle of Nick’s fist and doesn’t look away from the mirror - watches them both in it. He’s so flushed and looks done in, his hair getting curlier with sweat and frizz and his eyes look dark even to him - as dark as Nick’s who’s staring downwards, mouth parted as he watches as Harry uses his hand to get off.

Harry moans, just at the thought of that, of Nick making him do this. Harry loves it. Loves being this desperate, loves all Nick’s attention being on him. And Nick gets it. He must. He’s been perfect all night. Maybe Harry should explain, but he doesn’t need to. For now, what he does know is ever since Harry told Nick what he wanted, Nick has given it to him. Even with Nick’s teasing and the fact he hasn’t touched Harry nearly enough, it’s all been what Harry wanted.

Harry loves it. He tries to gasp this out to Nick. Manages a broken, “So good.”

“Feels good?” Nick asks, with his lips still on Harry’s neck. Harry realises he’s rolling his hips into Harry’s arse. “You look so good Harry. You know it too, don’t you? You like this, don’t you? Always happy with the attention, happy to be looked at. All pink and sweaty — love how you get. Fuck.” Nick takes a staggered breath, bites at Harry’s neck as if to stop the words he’s muttering. His hand is not-quite-tight-enough on Harry’s dick while his other is digging into Harry’s side, fingers tight on his hip. Nick’s breath tickles over the heated skin of Harry’s neck as Nick says roughly, “You look so good for me. Fuck you’re so hard, love.” He pulls at Harry’s foreskin, sliding it over the head just a fraction. Nick’s hand is still too loose around Harry’s dick, and it’s so frustrating, being held in place, so close but so far away. Harry is so on edge. He’s been on edge for ages, all night, since Singapore; since — fuck when did he meet Nick? Right now, it feels like he’s been waiting for always.

“Need more,” Harry manages to choke out. Blinks helplessly at Nick in the mirror, his eyes wet and pleading.

“Yeah alright, me too love.” Nick says into the skin of Harry’s neck. He lets go of Harry suddenly, but Harry’s frustrated groan dies on his lips as Nick licks his palm and then wraps his fingers around Harry’s dick again, a proper tight grasp that feels like heaven to Harry as he fucks into it. He shuts his eyes for the first time in ages and just lets Nick’s voice and hand take over.

“You’re all pink and desperate. So desperate. Just can’t stop yourself can you, fucking my fist like that. God, look at you.” Nick takes a deep breath; his voice is so different from his usual tone. He’s authoritative, but his breathing is stuttered, as if he’s just as affected by what’s happening as Harry is. “You going to come, Harry? Fuck — really want to see what you look like — want to see what I missed — what you looked like all those times you thought about me.” Harry opens his eyes to see Nick catch his lip under his teeth. He’s looking downwards, watching Harry’s dick and his own hand. “Show me Haz, come on,” Nick says, his breath a hot tickle on Harry’s neck and he looks up now, directly at Harry.

Harry feels wanton and needy and looked after. Nick’s breathing hard behind him and moving against Harry, holding his hip and basically grinding up against Harry’s arse. Harry thinks maybe he’s trying to hold himself back, but he can’t _because_ of Harry — Nick’s making these little noises, grunts and panting ‘yeah’ in Harry’s ear, muttering ‘good, you’re so good’ like a mantra while his wonderful hand never stops moving. Twisting over the length of Harry’s cock and squeezing his thumb over the head in a way that makes Harry gasp and shake.

Harry looks Nick in the eye right up until the very last moment — and that eye contact is a thrill in itself, feels like something so intense and unrestrained between them both. Harry’s almost whimpering, barely standing, holding on white knuckled to the countertop holding himself up as with one last wicked pass of Nick’s hand Harry’s eyes fall shut and hips jerk uncontrollably as he comes hot and messy and hard, all over Nick’s hand, all on the sink.

“Fuck,” Harry groans and then makes a sort of strangled laugh. He blinks his eyes open, and Nick is there, his own eyes wide and his mouth open breathing hard and making his own moan of satisfaction.

“So beautiful, Harry. So good. You looked amazing, look amazing.” Nick murmurs. He’s still moving his hand, which is all messy and wet with Harry’s come. Although Nick’s gentler now, he’s very deliberate with it, stretching a finger out to rub over the sensitive head of Harry’s dick. When Harry hisses and shakes a little, Nick repeats the action again. He’s too sensitive, but Harry doesn’t move away. He’s still gathering his wits about himself, and he likes the feeling. Likes the way Nick doesn’t seem to be able to stop, likes the way Nick’s hand is covered in Harry’s come and that he’s rubbing it back over himself. When Nick circles his palm around the head of Harry’s cock, Harry gives a gasp at the contact and Nick smiles delighted in a very dirty way. “Like that too, don’t you? You like it not being over.” He sounds proud maybe, impressed. It makes Harry feel good, as if he’s being praised.

Harry feels different from when he usually comes — he’s still a little on edge, he needs something more. He’s spent so long wanting that maybe he just doesn’t know how to stop. He almost starts moving into Nick’s hand again but the over-sensitive sensation stops that, instead he says, “Was it ok —”

Nick stops playing with his dick then, brings his come covered fingers to Harry’s mouth and interrupts him. “Yeah love, _so_ good Harry, looked so good. God so hot.” He holds his fingers to Harry’s mouth, and Harry doesn’t hesitate. He licks at the palm of Nick’s hand and sucks two fingers into his mouth.

“Fuck. Came so much, didn’t you? Taste it, Harry. You’ve been waiting all night, so good for me.” Nick babbles. He moves his fingers in and out of Harry’s mouth. Harry hollows his cheeks, then opens his lips, letting Nick see his fingers on Harry’s tongue.

“Jesus. You love it, don’t you.” Nick says. He sounds amazed and overwhelmed. He’s rocking into Harry’s arse again, Harry can hear his breathing, air sucked fast inwards. Harry makes a whining noise around Nick’s fingers and they move together. Harry turns around, or Nick moves him, one or the other, and then they're kissing. It’s just as messy as the fingers were in Harry’s mouth, with Nick’s tongue all possessive and licking right into Harry’s mouth - as if he’s trying to taste every part of Harry.

Harry shoves his hands up between their bodies, trying desperately to pull at Nick’s shirt buttons. He wants Nick’s clothes off, wants to see him. But Nick scrambles at Harry’s sides, trying to push him up against the bathroom counter and rock into him.

Harry pulls something too hard and it gives, a button popping off.

“Haz, my shirt — I don’t get those for free like you.” Nick laughs, stepping back and looking down at his torn shirt.

“Bullshit.” Harry grins, breathing hard. “You get more free stuff than I do.”

They are both breathing hard actually. Nick’s chest exposed and distracting, and they just look at each other for a moment. Nick’s pink himself, flushed high on his cheekbones and his laughter softens to a slight smile while he reaches to undo another shirt button. “It's been okay, yeah?” he asks.

“Very okay.” Harry nods. He’s got no real way of saying, ‘it’s been amazing, but I need more, need it all’ when he’s still not sure what _‘it all_ ’ even is. So instead he blurts out, “Do you want to fuck me?”

Nick coughs. A proper sitcom choke of a reaction and his eyes wide.

“Or not I guess,” Harry says, amused but a little nervous despite his being bold, “I just thought you know, me, folded over...”

“Folded over. Jesus.” Nick runs a hand through his hair, “I mean yes. Of course.” He rubs his other hand across his crotch, “Really want to,” he adds, wryly.

“Come on.” Harry says softly, runs his hand down Nick’s forearm as he passes him to go back into the bedroom. He climbs out of his jeans and pants as he moves and pauses, “I want what I told you I’ve been thinking about.” he says with his back to Nick. He shrugs off the shirt and wipes gingerly over his still messy dick before dropping it on the floor. He sits on the bed, stretching back against the pillows and watches as Nick follows him.

He thinks Nick will start teasing him and ask him to repeat it all again, but instead Nick stops and swallows. “Yeah. I want that too.”

 

Nick drops his shirt on the floor and then turns around while he undoes his trousers as Harry watches his back move. He’s just a bit broader than Harry, everything about him is just that _slightest_ bit larger. Harry likes that though; that’s where his fixation with the concept of Nick and the damn towel folding came from. The knowledge that Nick wouldn’t just be all talk, that he could do _that_ to Harry, too. Although the talk is good too. Nick in his ear in the bathroom before was everything he’d wanted, everything he’d fantasised about on tour wanking with his bloody voice note.

Nick steps out of his trousers and with a careless long arm tosses them onto a chair. When he turns back around he’s got a hand over his tummy. He’s still in his pants, the outline of his dick is heavy and thick and _fuck_. Harry’s seen Nick in his pants plenty, but not like this. Not with Nick looking wild-eyed and hard. It’s the first time Harry has been able to look so freely - the first time he has permission to touch.

He wants to do that. To touch. “Nick, come ‘ere,” Harry asks.

“Yeah okay.” Nick says with a deep breath. He rubs his hand over his mouth and moves towards the bed.

 

He’s seemed so in control all night, and Harry luxuriated in it. Nick being amused and teasing but also confident and in charge. Nick asked Harry if he trusted him and then just seemed to slip naturally into a role that Harry was very on-board with. It made Harry feel safe, even while he’s let himself be exposed. But there’s something different now. Nick’s authoritative teasing seems to have been left in the bathroom, and the mood is more charged. Harry doesn’t think it was ever really light-hearted. Fun, yes. Hot, fuck so hot — being told what to do by Nick. But there is something in Nick’s face that makes Harry think the magnitude of what they’re doing might be sinking in, a touch of reality creeping in around the edges.

Harry feels it too, it’s there in the way he keeps getting nervous in a way he hasn’t during sex for years. And it’s there in the way that instead of dropping his usual casual-but-carefully-phrased remarks which set up some type of clear pathway out of, often even before he’s in, a person’s bed Harry is instead biting down on his own urge to throw away the fulfilment of his sexual fantasies and just ask Nick _‘what happens tomorrow?’_

But also.

Nick’s dick is hard and looks invitingly big in his pants and Harry would like to kiss him a lot more, would like to have his hands on him again. And so long as Harry can have Nick tonight, then afterwards he’ll get to keep the memory of it. So instead of everything else Harry turns his mouth up at the side in a smirk and with a small shrug of his shoulders suggests, “Fold me up?”  

Nick pulls his pants down then. Shucking them off quickly and Harry drinks it in. His lovely long naked legs and his dick hard, pink and curved upwards. It looks perhaps longer than Harry’s - _everything just a little bit larger_ he thinks as Nick wraps an unconscious hand around himself as he shuffles onto the mattress. Harry wants to investigate, he reaches out as if for his turn to touch.

“This is all...” Nick starts as he shuffles closer. He brushes one of his fingers along Harry’s cheek, it smells like come, and it’s filthy and hot and Harry wants that. He whimpers at the idea of it all and Nick seems to forget what he was going to say for a moment. Harry takes his chance, turns his head and licks out for Nick’s finger. Sucks it into his mouth and turns his chin up to demand more.

“Shit,” Nick says softly, his eyes zeroed in on Harry’s mouth. “Was going to check it was all okay but look at you, needing more already. Never stopped, did you?”

“Want it,” Harry slurs around Nick’s fingers.

“Yeah, I know love, going to give it to you. Want to kiss you first. Going to be polite and kiss me?”

Harry’s lifting his arms and stretching his neck before Nick’s even finished asking.

 

It’s always been good kissing Nick. The few times they have they’ve never discussed anything afterwards, always hiding behind hangovers or the excuse of early flights. But it was always good, even if sometimes they’d both been a bit too fucked up to remember it fully. Harry often thinks it's the idea of having kissed Nick that had been enough to make him think it was good. The first few times they’d kissed, years ago, he’d wake up in the morning knowing that they’d done it, but not who started it or who stopped it first. Then for a while, a few years, the kissing stopped altogether. Harry had put it away, together with the idea of Nick and him as something more. But then June happened. June, and really all of the last year and, well, Nick’s never been someone Harry’s ever been able to stop himself thinking about really. It was always there, in the back of his mind and since June it took a proper and all-encompassing turn.

They kiss until Harry is writhing against Nick. Lying back on the bed, his dick trapped between his own stomach and Nick’s hip, still a little raw but almost hard again. Nick leans on his elbow, and his hand is on the mattress very close to Harry’s head. It feels nice, being all caged in. Nick nips at his lip before pulling away just the slightest bit to breathe, mouth wet, little gasps and puffs of air slipping out before kissing him more. It’s messy too. Nick fucks his tongue into Harry’s mouth and makes it so dirty that Harry’s soon pushing his hips up and moaning while Nick uses his free hand to hold Harry's face in place. He takes what he wants, but gives Harry exactly what he needs. He bites at Harry’s mouth and tastes him with a series of long dirty kisses that quickly make Harry feel almost too needy again from the weight of Nick above him.

Harry gradually becomes more and more aware of Nick’s dick, hard just beside against his own. It’s sweaty between their bodies, and Harry’s getting wet again, pre-come sticky and leaking from his slit. Harry wants to feel him. Fuck - he wants Nick to fuck him. He tries to move his head, needs to tell Nick, but when he twists to get out of Nick’s grasp, it’s as if Nick already knows. Nick pulls Harry’s arm up above his head and holds it in place while he kisses down Harry’s chest to his ribs. He bites Harry’s chest and sucks under Harry’s armpit, his large hand spread across Harry’s rib cage.

“Jesus, I even like how you smell,” Nick mouths into Harry’s sides and then bites again, making Harry squirm.

“Nick, I need...”

Nick takes a deep breath next to Harry’s armpit and then raises himself up, looks down at Harry, “Fuck look at the state of you Haz, you look good, perfect.”

That makes Harry smile. _Nick_ makes Harry smile. But also right now is making Harry writhe.  Harry goes to move his arms, and in response, Nick holds him tighter.

“Keep being good Harry, ‘gonna give you what you wanted alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “Fuck me?”

“Yeah, going to fuck you,” Nick answers. The way he says it sounds a little far away — as if he's still working it out in his mind. Harry wants Nick to know it's all okay.  This is happening, and it's good. He wants Nick to know that it’s better than good, that Nick is perfect. He's exactly what Harry wants. Needs.

“Nick,” Harry says with a more demanding hip roll, “want your fingers.”

“Do you?” Nick sounds more like himself now, mischievous. Pleased. He's playing at being cool but he's moving his hips against Harry's own and Harry remembers that Nick still hasn't come. Harry knows Nick's been hard for ages and he must want to as much as Harry wants him to. Harry's about to say something - to tell Nick he wants to make him come, but his words catch when Nick drops a kiss to his lips and follows it by swiping his thumb across them.

“Want it to be what you wanted though. Bit of pressure really...”

“It is,” Harry cuts him off quickly, and stretches up to kiss Nick quickly, “already is what I want.”

It's nice to see the way Nick's expression changes. His eyes widen just a fraction, and his quick moving lips curve into a smile before he tamps down on it.

“Need more though,” Harry continues with a smirk. He pulls at Nick’s hold on his arm again and thrusts his hips up to emphasise his point.

“Alright, alright,” Nick huffs unable not to smile back. "Demanding." He leans over Harry to reach into his bedside table.

 

For a moment, it's hard to breathe. Nick’s heavy, his weight all on Harry and he’s getting out condoms and lube. That’s a weight as well. Pinned under him momentarily, Harry just lets it all sink in. He makes sure he’s feeling every part of Nick that is touching him. From Nick’s body on top of him, the tickle of his chest hair over Harry’s nipple, his knee digging in slightly to Harry’s thigh as Nick gets leverage to reach across. The scent of the pillowcase as Harry turns his head and breathes in deep is settling, the softness of Nick’s sheets warm and familiar. He always loves Nick’s sheets. Nothing crisp. Nothing hotel like.

Nick moves back, weight on his knees again and he brings Harry's arm down beside him as he settles back between Harry’s legs. “You going to show off for me again Haz? Looked so good before.”

Harry does like the idea of Nick's eyes on him. Of Nick watching while he opens himself up, but not being allowed to touch. Harry would like to see him all needy and wanting. But right now he needs Nick to touch. Needs his fingers.

 

It'd been Nick's fingers holding that fucking towel. Nick’s fingers he’s been fantasising about feeling all over him, pushing down on his legs or holding his arse cheeks apart, Nick’s hands and fingers having him on display and pushing into him. He wants that. Needs to feel lost to them, to him.

“You, I want you,” Harry says getting warm again. It always feels exposing saying it out loud.

Nick looks pleased. “Of course. I’ll give you that, you already let me watch before didn’t you?”

“I did.” Harry gasps out because Nick’s touching his flanks. Tickling him by brushing his hand over Harry’s stomach, sides and thighs, not touching his dick.

Nick’s fingers catch on the wetness that Harry’s leaked onto his belly. Nick rubs his finger in the mess and mutters, “Showed off for me already didn’t you. Naughty, filthy boy.”

Harry loves that. Loves being good for Nick. But also loves being shameless. He thrusts his hips again and moans as Nick finally takes Harry’s dick in his hand. Nick gives him a few rough strokes and then swipes his thumb across the leaking head of Harry’s cock. He releases Harry almost as quickly, but Harry’s disappointed cry dies on his lips as he watches Nick suck his thumb into his mouth, tasting him. Harry can’t look away.

Nick swallows and says with the same authoritative voice as before, “Going to put a pillow under your hips, Harry. Make it nice and easy for me to open you up.” Harry raises his hips immediately, happy to do anything to help Nick do that. “Eager,” Nick mutters as he slides the pillow underneath Harry’s hips. He sounds delighted though, and it makes Harry dizzy to be both noticed and praised.

 

Nick’s deliberate as he reaches for the lube and slicks his fingers, his eyes raking up and down Harry’s body. He drops the tube onto the mattress and immediately grasps Harry’s thigh with his clean hand, runs his hand up over it, pressing on Harry’s hip.

“These bloody tattoos. Everything about you is…” he fades away. “Going to make this so good, Haz.” he finishes, as if he’s promising himself as well as Harry.

Harry’s overly aware of his own breathing, the way his chest is expanding, the way his stomach is turning over with nerves. Nick touches him without any more waiting, the pad of his thumb a little rough on the sensitive skin under Harry’s balls as Nick circles his fingers, spreading the lube around and stroking over Harry’s rim. He toys a little, pushing at his edge with his thumb with intent and then circling around the surrounding soft skin with lighter touches. Harry makes a little noise that he can’t hold back and almost laughs at how it feels, never knowing what Nick is going to do – the endless fucking anticipation.

Then Nick slides a finger inside.

“Oh,” Nick says. Tongue darting out over his lip and mouth open.

Harry’s breath hitches. He strains his neck more because he wants to see Nick’s face, to watch Nick’s arm move as he touches Harry. Harry has always loved Nick’s arms, long and freckled and so good for hugs and strong enough to let Harry easily picture them holding him down - holding him in place. Nick looks up, his mouth open and eyes roaming all over Harry’s body. “All wet Haz. Your dick’s all wet too, love that.” Harry’s skin prickles and he arches his back in reaction, pushes his hips out. Gaudy and on display. Harry can’t speak to reply though. Nick adds another finger straight away, and it burns, but it’s good. Harry’s starting to get that sort of need. That feeling teasing at the edges of his consciousness that he wants to be proper full. He rocks back on Nick’s fingers, one hand in the sheets and one on his own chest, sliding down to his dick before Nick bats his hand away.

“Behave,” Nick says in a low tone and twists his fingers a little harder to make his point. He thumbs at the edge of Harry’s rim while curving his fingers inside him. Harry can only moan in response, his hips bucking up into nothing and his hand balled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. Nick presses his thumb on the skin under Harry ’s balls, rubbing tiny circles while he fucks his fingers into him. He does it in a way that Harry knew he would - hoped he would when he fantasised on a loop in hotels rooms about this. Nick’s skilled with it, he’s done it before and clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s not about opening Harry up as such, more it seems to be just one more thing that Nick is doing tonight to drive Harry crazy.

“Come on—” Harry pants out, “just do it yeah, want you.”

Nick’s damned mouth quirks at the side and he crooks his fingers, proper nice and deep inside Harry. And Harry knows Nick was avoiding his prostate before - because he’s right fucking on it now. Harry swears and throws out a fist in a fruitless automatic reaction, a thigh shaking as his broken swear word turns into a gasping sob.

“Look at that. You’re getting even wetter,” Nick says. Harry would laugh at how Nick sounds — amazed and turned on — if he could do anything except concentrate on trying to remember to breathe. Nick has stilled his fingers, so he’s just rubbing inside Harry — persistent over that spot. He takes Harry’s dick in his other hand, lazily rubs the length of it, all easy with the amount of pre-come that is leaking from Harry's dick.

“Would love to see how much I could get from you Harry, love to see how far I could push. Slowly, just touch and lick and milk you dry — hours and hours...” Nick mutters.

And shit. Harry’s never thought of it before, but the idea of giving Nick utterly everything he has. The idea of just being Nick’s to play with and push and take from is more than enough. His balls get tight. “Fuck — Nick” he gasps and makes a guttural noise, trying desperately not to come again before Nick’s even started fucking him.

Nick smiles soft but giddy. “Like that idea, do you? Next time, hey?” His face changes almost as he says it, smile dimming as he looks down. Must be looking at where his fingers are disappearing into Harry. “Look so good Harry, how do you always look so good?” Nick gives another devastating twist and then pulls all his fingers out and rubs round Harry’s rim gently with the pads of his fingers, as his other hand blindly reaches for the condom.

“Gonna fuck you, okay, Harry?” He asks and looks up.

“Yes,” Harry hisses, “Please.” He raises his hips, dick so hard and bobbing stupidly when he does. He’s so fucking gone for it all, more than ready. He has to stop himself from rolling up, pulling his own knees back. Getting himself all folded over and ready. So instead he watches Nick.

 

Nick wipes his hand off on his sheets and chewing his lip he tears at the condom. He can’t seem to look at Harry’s face for a moment, but Harry can only watch him. His hair hanging over his eyes as he tilts his head to look at his hands, the line of his jaw, a bit of a shadow of a beard across the angle of it. That tattoo on his bicep. His chest. Harry wants to touch him everywhere he hasn't been given a chance to. He wants to kiss Nick’s nipples and lick at the sweat on his chest. He wants to put a cooling hand over the name fresh inked on his left ribs. He wants to show Nick he can give back as well as receive.

This thought sparks something in him, and Harry makes to sit up, thinks he’ll help, he’s got clean hands. Plus, the idea of touching Nick is a very good one. He wants to get his hand on him, _needs_ to get his mouth on him. But when he does rise, Nick reaches out and puts his palm on his stomach.  

“Stop showing off your abs Harold, impatient, needy boy. You said you’d be good but look, being naughty, aren’t you?”

Harry has no idea how Nick does it. He manages to say things that sound stupidly hot while shuffling on an unsteady bed, condom covered dick bobbing in front of him. Harry whines at being called naughty and opens his mouth, to explain what he wants to do but Nick doesn’t let him speak.

“No, don’t give me excuses. You are naughty, and I’m going to fuck you now. Going to fuck the fuck out of you, aren’t I?” Nick’s voice is very low. Harry can feel Nick’s dick, hard and slick with lube, nudging bluntly at his hole. Nick has one hand on Harry’s inner left thigh, holding him open and he’s watching Harry as he pushes in. Nick’s mouth drops open, and he shuts his eyes as he pushes further in, which is good. Harry doesn’t think he could take having Nick watch him right now. It hurts because Nick’s not small, but it’s a good kind of hurt. Harry breathes through it and squeezes his own eyes closed for a moment as heat prickles across his chest.

“Fuck.” Harry almost laughs, waiting for the stretch to stop burning as much, tipping his hips up to meet Nick.

“Fuck me,” Nick says — Northern and disbelieving.

Harry huffs a laugh — feeling Nick so deep inside him when he does, “That’s your job,” he manages to get out.

There is a shaky breath in, half an overwhelmed laugh, and then Nick moves very gently and his nostrils flare a bit. He’s trying to keep it under control Harry can tell. He has an urge to roll his hips and push it so Nick can’t help himself. There’s a lot in that for Harry, the idea of making Nick so undone that he can’t stop himself from coming quickly - he also wants to get properly fucked. Another stroke or two and Nick finally opens his eyes, tightening his grip on Harry’s hip and with his other hand grabs Harry's waist pulling him in flush.

“My job,” he growls. And then proceeds to do just that.

 

Nick fucks him pretty perfectly right from the start, his strokes long and deep. It’s sweaty skin slapping on skin and Harry’s almost wheezing. His hands are balled in the sheets as he tries to get leverage to meet Nick’s thrusts. Very quickly Nick starts making noises that sound just as desperate and overwhelmed as Harry’s, but his face stays inscrutable and always watching, just soaking in Harry’s reactions.

It’s the noises Nick can’t help but make that Harry loves most. That reassurance that not everything is about Nick giving Harry what he needs. They let Harry know Nick is lost in the moment as much as he is himself. And _god_ , the way Nick is - no hesitation, he knows what he's doing. Short thrusts that hit his spot and then longer deeper ones that bring Nick balls slapping against Harry’s arse. _Fuck._ Harry can actually feel his dick leaking more. Despite _just_ coming it’s like he’s been on edge for hours, and Nick makes him feel so full, pushing against him, deep inside him. Nick’s hands firm and grabbing at Harry’s hips - Nick’s body solid between Harry’s legs. It’s all real and good, and _fuck_ \- Harry doesn't want to come again yet. He needs to know what it'll feel like to be all folded up first.

 

Harry lifts his legs, stopping Nick’s thrusting by rolling his hips up with the movement and Nick gets it straight away. He moves Harry into place, pushing his legs back against Harry’s torso - Harry slips his hands in under his knees and holds himself in place for Nick who takes a moment to look down again at where he’s fucking into him. "Fuck, Harry. You look amazing." Nick says with reverence and moves his hand from Harry's left thigh to reach down and touch, stroking over Harry's stretched rim where he’s splitting him apart. Nick twists a little as he fumbles for the lube with his free hand and pulls almost fully out.

Harry moans, “No-o.” Then Nick is touching him, fingers cold-wet with the added lube which makes Harry jump as Nick finishes spreading it over his dick and moves on to rub at Harry’s swollen rim, pushing just a tip of a finger inside next to his dick. “You could take it,” Nick says with wonder.

“I could.” Harry slurs, blinks wet eyes down at Nick, and bears down, feeling Nick’s finger slip a little deeper inside. Every limit Nick teases about testing Harry wants so much to come back and dive into. He feels like it must be written on his face, how much he wants Nick to push him, how fucking gone and wasted he is for anything Nick might suggest. Harry never even thought to dim the lights let alone light one of Nick’s candles and the room is bright but Harry’s glad now. Glad how much Nick can see. Harry feels flayed bare tonight, but that’s a delicate thing as well. In the sharp burn of Nick pushing in Harry thinks how dangerous this all is — how exposing this lack of inhibition will be in the end.

Nick wipes his hand off on the sheet and starts to move again, shudders through his stroke and asks, voice strained, “Is that ok?”  

Harry sucks a breath in and nods. “Closer lean - on - me.” The words punched out of him as Nick rocks forward.

Again, Nick gets what Harry means straight away. He leans his weight onto Harry, chest resting on his legs and arms caged in around Harry’s face. The strain on Harry’s hamstrings is a slight burn, but Harry likes that feeling as well. Nick mouths at him, a messy kiss that doesn’t quite land. Both of them have their eyes open now and Nick’s face pink and sweaty. Harry knows he’s the same.  
  
“Like you looking at me,” Harry confesses. He blinks up at Nick, who is so close to him now. In all the ways, he’s so close.

“Like looking at you.” Nick pants back, a word for every deep hard thrust as he fucks into Harry.

“Like knowing you're thinking about me.” Harry’s voice is raspy, and he’s so close again, and he’s got no idea why this spilling from him now, when Nick’s finally deep inside him, fingers bruising Harry’s calves where he’s holding Harry’s legs in place. But god. He’s so much. _They_ are so much.

Nick stills, blows a breath upwards that moves his fallen fringe and says almost as a sigh, “Always thinking about you.”

“Me too,” Harry says, “Always thinking about you. Even when I'm not, I am.”

Nick kisses him then, leant right over to do so while Harry strains his neck to meet Nick’s mouth. It's mostly tongues and spit-wet lips and panting, but there's desperation from them both to say something they can’t with words.

When Nick pulls away, he moves Harry's legs back tight against Harry's torso muttering amused, “Bendy popstar.” Then after the slightest pause continues in an entirely different tone, “Does it hurt Harry, all bent up like that? All constrained. Look at you, so _desperate._ ” He thrusts as a punctuation. “Look what you'll do just to get _fucked_."

Harry whines a little and tries to raise his hips off the pillow to meet Nick. “Is it - even - _enough?_ ” Nick asks as he slams his hips into Harry, his breath hot and gasping over Harry’s own open mouth.

Harry can barely think — can scarcely breathe. Pinned so tight by Nick’s body, his hands either side of Harry’s head caging him in. Harry's unable to move while simultaneously everything is being stretched to the point of delicious pain. Harry's bent up legs are burning, he's got his own knee by his head, and Nick’s fucking him in a way that Harry’s going to feel for days. There’s less and less finesse in Nick’s rhythm now, his thrusts are erratic, and the force of them is pushing little grunts from Nick’s mouth. His balls slap against Harry's arse cheeks, the noise of skin on skin, and wetness and sweat everywhere. Nick’s losing control at the same time as keeping Harry wrapped up and under his. It’s precisely what Harry wanted, what he fantasised about. Nick is exactly what he wanted. Harry’s dick is throbbing and can feel deep in his lower belly the need to come building and clouding out all else.

“Wanna—” he gasps out.

Nick answers only with ragged breath and then leaning on Harry’s shins he lifts himself up. Before Harry can protest Nick’s giving him instructions. “Hold your legs up Haz, good boy, so lovely like that,” he praises as Harry scrambles to hook his elbows under his knees. “You going to let me watch you come again? So good letting me see-” Nick says as he moves him closer, pulling Harry’s hips towards his body. Harry thinks he’ll have multiple little marks tomorrow from Nick’s hands, tiny blooms of memory on his skin.

“Over my shoulder,” Nick tells him, and Harry lifts his legs. Nick wastes no time wrapping his lovely big hand around Harry’s dick as he fucks him in smaller much more precise strokes. He's pushing against Harry’s spot while rubbing over the wet head of his dick.

“You look wrecked Harry, so perfect, never seen anything like it, so fucking hot,” Nick babbles.

Harry wants to say that that’s what Nick looks like, wants to say that Nick’s the best he’s had - so generous - too much - Harry’s taking everything. Harry wants to apologise for being so greedy for it, but he can’t say anything. The only noise that comes from him is a broken sob of a cry as he flings his head back. Nick is saying something but Harry whites out on the feeling of it all. Nick inside him, persistent and so fucking deliberate over and _over_ his prostate - the lingering burning in Harry's legs, and the idea that this is all that he wanted combines with the slight sting and sense of being overused that coming for the second time brings.

“Beautiful. You filthy - wonderful - boy,” Nick says in wonder as he thrusts suddenly deeper, buried to the hilt and fucking the come out of Harry almost, each hard-thrust matching Harry’s pulsing dick. Harry is useless, lost in a floaty euphoria, feeling used and spent and high - he can only watch and gasp for breath as wild-eyed Nick pulls out of Harry and rips his condom off. Harry watches — not even able to comprehend what he sees really - as Nick swears, and with only a pass or two of his hand over his own dick comes all over Harry’s own messy cock and stomach.

It’s wonderful.

Nick seems to think so too and squeezes at his dick and watches as the last bit of come dribbles out, all while making little shivery noises before he collapses heavily on the bed next to Harry. His chest heaving, the hair there matted with sweat.

 

Harry rolls on his side, pushes his body lengthwise all the way along Nick’s. Both of them are breathing hard. Harry kisses Nick’s cheek, his skin hot under Harry’s lips. They are a bit too messy for it to be pleasant but Harry has a compulsion to keep touching Nick.

“Ugh, I’m so sweaty, and you're getting come all over me,” Nick whines, grinning as he lifts himself up on one arm so their faces are closer. He kisses Harry's lips, tastes sweat-salty and perfect.

“Getting come on _you_? Sounds fair really,” Harry murmurs. His eyes fluttering open and his limbs feeling heavy.

“You okay? Nick asks, “I didn’t go too far?” He can't make eye contact now, is studiously looking at Harry’s chest

“Yeah." Harry sighs happily. “Feel good. Free maybe?”

Nick bites his lip. “Want to say something naff ‘bout how you’re a bit brave or something. I—”

Harry cuts him off by kissing him, another lingering simple kiss on the lips. _He_ wants to say a lot of things as well, but settles for, “Come have a shower?”

“Yeah, shower,” Nick agrees. “Then I’ll check the back door is locked then maybe we can choose a movie and have a cuddle or something. I don’t know, do you have to go?” Nick sounds increasingly nervous as he keeps talking.

“I don’t want to?” Harry replies.

“Good. I don’t want you to either. Good.” Nick says. He rolls back down onto his back so he’s staring up at the ceiling. A hand on his chest over his heart as if he’s still feeling out the rise and fall of his chest. Harry flexes his toes and lifts a leg up in the air to stretch it out, wishes he was psychic, wishes he knew what Nick was feeling.

“Were you thinking of the back door the whole time?” he asks.

“No.” Nick snorts. “Well in one way I suppose,” he adds with an exaggerated eyebrow raise.

“Shut up.” Harry smiles.

Nick looks at him. “Just settling isn’t it, knowing you’re all safe inside before you go to sleep.” They look at each other for a moment. Nick’s eyelashes are all wet and his expression fond.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “Nick, that was…”

“Yeah, it was,” Nick cuts him off this time, and kisses him again. Rolls back onto his side so they are face-to-face and rests his palm on Harry's waist. Harry isn’t sure why Nick doesn’t want him to finish. He’s probably just as much silently freaking out as Harry is, probably just as uncertain. This seems a fair bet. Harry thinks of the way Nick’s smile dimmed even when he was inside him. The way Nick kept looking always looking - as if he had to memorise everything. Harry thinks of the way Nick said about three things that Harry wants to roll over and start working on doing together as soon as he feels less sensitive to the touch. Harry thinks about the fact that he really _really_ wants to get his mouth on Nick’s dick. Looks at it resting on Nick's thigh - spent and pink and still mouth-watering somehow. Harry's barely got to touch him.

“Do they show repeats of _Sweat the Small Stuff_? Wouldn’t mind getting some more inspiration,” he jokes sliding his hand down over Nick's stomach to his hips.

Nick lifts his head up, confused for a moment and then glances away as his lips quirk when he must work out what Harry’s saying.

“Fuck no, Haz,” Nick replies, his hand sliding down and squeezing Harry’s arse. “If you’re going to let me have a next time I have enough ideas without either of us having to suffer through the Quiff of Grimmy.”

 

⌤⌤⌤

 

Nick clatters back up the stairs after checking on the locks and stops in the doorway from the landing, leaning against it and looking at Harry. His head cocks to the side like Pig when she’s uncertain but wants something, and Harry feels a little swollen in his chest about that. Nick might not even know it — but he’s asking for something.  Harry isn’t sure he knows how to answer it just yet. Knows what he wants to answer, but is unsure of the how of it all.

So, he swallows the hopeful doubt, and he says instead, “Do you think _Nine to Five_ was the pre- _Bridesmaids_ _Bridesmaids_?” He looks back towards the Netflix selection screen on the telly.

Nick gasps. “No! Nothing was the pre- _Bridesmaids_ _Bridesmaids_ , it's unique.”

“Hmmm,” Harry sounds out, playing unconvinced.

He looks back at Nick still paused in the door, all he's wearing is a towel slung low on his hips and his glasses. He looks fucked out even thirty minutes later and there are wonderful little marks on his neck and biceps. Harry's pulse speeds up and warmth spreads in his chest. Maybe he does have a towel kink because Nick has never looked better, never looked closer to being _Harry’s,_ and he's going to have to do it. He’s going to have to say the thing that will mean it all changes between them.

“Grab your laptop and come over here, I want to write a list of all the ways _Nine to Five_ is the pre- _Bridesmaids Bridesmaids_.”

Nick laughs. “Is this list really about how you want to get off with Jane Fonda?”

“No,” Harry pauses and pulls at his lip. “Actually, about what you said before; next times and quiffs and everything,” Harry stops and Nick looks very confused. “I was going to say, and it’s not a matter of _letting you_ \- that was fucking amazing, I’d be lucky to have you…” Harry realises Nick is looking more puzzled rather than less. He sucks a breath in through his nose and says, “I want to try maybe just getting off with you for a while.”

“Just us two for a little while?” Nick says taking a slow blink. He scratches at his chest with a long finger and a smile creeps around the edges. “I don’t get off with pop stars who talk ill of _Bridesmaids,_ Harry.” But Nick’s walking towards him, and Harry’s already stretching up to meet him.

He’s definitely about to get kissed.     

 

⌤End⌤

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [silveredsound](https://silveredsound.tumblr.com/post/176918114700/a-good-airing-chapters-11-words18886) on tumblr if you'd like to chat.  
> 
> 
> [This](https://silveredsound.tumblr.com/post/168389834175/wait-till-i-put-you-in-the-airing-cupboard-via-x) has some pertinent gifs and a link to the YouTube episode in question. 
> 
> I was so lucky my friends beta-ed this for me over the (way too) many months I was writing it. All mistakes left are mine alone.
> 
> This fic must live here and here alone. 
> 
> ⌤⌤⌤


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